


If We Choose to Fall, Who's to Say It Isn't Flight

by ComeAlongPond14



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Dog Tags, Established Relationship, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Military Kink, Military Uniforms, PWP, Riding, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-18
Updated: 2014-02-18
Packaged: 2018-01-12 22:42:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1203238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ComeAlongPond14/pseuds/ComeAlongPond14
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(Established Relationship AU) Alternative ending for the scene in The Great Game when John storms out of the flat after Sherlock makes an unkind comment about his blog.</p><p>Or: When Sherlock is a dick, Captain Watson puts him in his place.</p><p>Title from Dessa's stunning "Into the Spin."</p>
            </blockquote>





	If We Choose to Fall, Who's to Say It Isn't Flight

**Author's Note:**

> Multi-purpose post:  
> 1), I love my readers, and therefore wish to offer you regular smut and goodness;  
> 2) I seriously have a Captain Watson fetish and needed to write him<3;  
> 3) I'm re-watching Great Game and this is head canon.

_“All that matters to me is the work. Without that, my brain rots. Put that in your blog. Or better still, stop inflicting your opinions on the world!”_

For the count of several heartbeats, Sherlock’s harsh words hovered in the air between them, the frustration which drenched his voice keeping John from actually wondering if he meant them. He knew his idiot lover better than that. He also knew exactly what Sherlock needed when his mind was this enflamed.

John stood, moving from the armchair around the coffee table until he reached the sofa, where the despondent detective was curled on his side like an overgrown toddler.

If Sherlock realized what was coming to him, he remained remarkably calm, managing not to tremble or even glance over his shoulder before John leaned over him. He wrapped an arm around the taller man’s chest, dragging him up into a half-seated position. In this position, clutching Sherlock against his body back-to-front, John’s lips drifted to his ear.

“You are a right foul-mouthed pain in the arse when you’re grumpy, you know that? I think...” And now he let his free hand move, stroking it down over the detective’s side and around to his stomach, feeling the muscles of his abdomen quiver as he tried to hold still. “I think you need a distraction. Something along the lines of a good swatting and a hard shag. Hm?”

A small noise tore out of Sherlock’s mouth, a little whimper/moan of anticipation that never failed to give John a head rush, knowing that he suddenly had total and absolute power over this incredible, brilliant man.

His hand was still roaming, sliding down over the pinstriped pajama pants and feeling his lover’s growing erection, as it lengthened and hardened under his touch. Sherlock whimpered again, his hips spasming as he fought not to push himself up into John’s hand.

“Good boy,” the doctor muttered for his benefit, because that was a standing rule of this game; when he stepped into the dominant role, not just a lover but a master, then Sherlock did not set the pace, and he did not get to pursue his own pleasure. He took what his army doctor gave him, and that was it.

“John,” Sherlock murmured, and his voice was raw with wanting, as it got when he had a particular fantasy. John smiled against the dark curls, sucking the lobe of Sherlock’s ear into his mouth and biting down, loving the noise of pain/pleasure it elicited from the other man. “What are you imagining, love?”

Sherlock’s voice was just a little more broken, his hips making repeated small jerking movements as he tried to remain still. “Dog tags?” he asked breathlessly, and John laughed against his neck.

“Mmm, need Captain Watson, do you? You _are_ in a mood tonight.”

Another whimper, this one in agreement, and Sherlock’s long white fingers twitched where they clutched tightly at John’s hand on his chest. “Yes,” he panted. “There’s so much _noise_ John, just white noise in my head, I just want it to be quiet...”

The doctor leaned in, biting down softly on the white column of his lover’s neck, making a small red mark, the first of the night. If Sherlock wanted the Captain, he’d get him.

His hand closed over Sherlock’s cock abruptly, squeezing hard, and loving the sound of lust the man made, his hips bucking despite his best efforts. “Right then, you bloody childish, bad-tempered, beautiful git. On your knees--stay on the sofa--take the robe and t-shirt off. I’ll be right back. When I am, I expect you to be in position with your hands on the backrest, you hear me? They’ll be worse consequences than you’re already in for, if you’re not.”

Sherlock’s voice was lower than usual, and vibrating with excitement. “Yes, sir.”

God, John loved the sound of those words in that voice.

He moved, releasing Sherlock too quickly and biting back a laugh as the man fell, catching himself on the table and making a startled noise. It was part of the process of dragging him back when he got too far into this dark headspace, lashing out at John and Mrs. Hudson and anyone else--usually Greg, or Mycroft--over any little thing. John had to be rough with him, abrupt and impatient, with scattered, murmured praises to remind him that it was still John, _his_ John, and the actions were meant lovingly.

Down the hall in the room they had been sharing now for several months, John dug the necessary gear out of his footlocker, on the floor of their closet. He made quick work of it, pulling on the tattered camouflage trousers and the beige undershirt that had seen better days, and still bore a small hole in the left shoulder.

It didn’t trigger him to see it, anymore. Not when he knew what the sight of it did to his friend and lover.

His dog tags still hung on their polished silver chain, the tabs themselves a little dull from sun and age, no matter how he tried to bring back their good-as-new shine. He liked them better this way, showing the time they’d spent around his neck in combat. Slinging them on over his head, he felt his former identity come sliding back through his veins, the spark and heat and leashed rage of a soldier settling over his mind like a slow-simmering wildfire.

He didn’t bother with the boots or the jacket, because they were cumbersome, and they’d be off again within moments, anyway.

Returning to the living room, he hummed in satisfaction at the sight of his lover, posed perfectly on his knees on the cushions, his bare back rippling with the tremors that betrayed how eager he was for this. His knuckles were white as he gripped the back of the couch.

Striding over to him, John tangled his fingers in the thick dark curls, dragging his head back and savoring the way the movement exposed his long throat, his heaving chest, his concave stomach. The doctor lowered his left hand, running his fingers along all that white skin being offered up to him, envisioning it splashed with a rosy pink flush as he stroked and pinched and teased. He knew his fantasies would show across his face, and that the darting, exploring eyes of the man whose hair he clutched would see them all, and anticipate every detail.

Sherlock whimpered, and John released his hair to slip his right hand around Sherlock’s face, clasping it over his mouth to silence him. He loved the way Sherlock looked like this; trapped by John’s hands and his attitude, pinned by his own need to surrender the chaos in his mind to the confident touch of his Captain.

“Now then,” John began, conversationally, and he smiled as Sherlock’s pupils expanded, hungry for his punishment. “You were rather disrespectful to your commanding officer, weren’t you?” Sherlock tried to nod, and John reached around and pinched one nippled sharply between his thumb and forefinger, smiling as the detective bucked into the contact with a muffled cry of pleasure. “I didn’t need your confirmation, love, I know that you're in need of a good thrashing. So. We’re going to start easy, give you fifteen across that beautiful arse of yours, and then we’ll see how much your behaviour has improved.”

He removed his hand, and almost immediately Sherlocked started up, panting out, “Captain Watson, God yes, _please_ \--!”

Growling in disapproval, John covered his mouth again. “Can’t even keep silent under orders, can you? You infuriating, self-assured, utter prat.” Another bite, on the other side of Sherlock’s throat, and John smiled against the pale skin as Sherlock moaned and pushed needfully into the pressure of his mouth.

Reaching up, he tugged off his dog tags, fisting the metal tabs and pressing them against his lover’s pouting lips. “Take them,” he said sharply. “I want you to hold onto those with that runaway mouth of yours, maybe that will keep you quiet.”

Obediently Sherlock accepted the tags, letting the chain hang down his bare chest in a silver trickle. John let out a soft breath at the sight of his lover’s mouth pursed around the tags that represented his military persona. “God, you beautiful thing,” he muttered, and when Sherlock began to smirk, John grasped his shoulder and pushed him down, the new position thrusting his arse out for inspection.

John rubbed a palm soothingly over the curve of Sherlock’s hip, feeling the cool skin and jutting bone, and tutting softly. “Maybe low blood sugar is the reason you’re such a rude little cunt sometimes,” he said crossly, and he’d been mostly joking, but Sherlock let out a startling little groan at his words, and John paused, glancing up at him.

“You like being talked down to, love?” His voice had dropped, a low rumble, and Sherlock shivered at the sound, nodding wordlessly. John chuckled. “Hm. Proper drama queen, aren’t you? Need a ruddy military officer to give you a bloody spanking and make you his bitch to keep you from being a tosser to everyone.” Without warning he delivered the first strike, hitting through the cotton of the pajama pants, and Sherlock whimpered and pushed his hips back.

That earned his second slap, and John pushed him back into place. “Be still,” he snapped, and the command was back in his voice full-force, making the detective keen and drop his head between his arms, the chain of the dog tags hang down from his mouth. It was glistening with saliva where it emerged from his semi-slack mouth, and John smiled to himself, knowing his arse of a boyfriend was losing himself in John’s control--as was the goal.

His next move was to tug down the cotton, baring Sherlock’s pale-as-cream arse cheeks to his view. Sherlock whined again, but remained still, and in reward for that, John made sure to rub a warm, soothing hand over the area where he delivered the third blow. The next several came quickly, and Sherlock remained still but for trembling as they fell, with John murmuring praises and intermittent “good boy’s.”

When he raised his hand from the tenth, John paused. “I want you to count the last five, alright, pet? But don’t let the tags fall out.” A nod, no attempt to break the rules by speaking yet, and John smiled, proud of his lover. “Good boy. Come on, then.”

Obligingly, Sherlock choked out the count--”Eleven... _Captain_...tw-twelve...thirteen...fourteen, ngh...fif...fiftten...”--around the dog tags, and when John finished, he sank onto the sofa, guiding Sherlock to lay across his lap with his arse over John’s lap so that he could rub the reddened flesh soothingly, every few passes letting his fingers brush questioningly over his lover’s entrance, which was as flushed and swollen as the rest of his arse, now.

After a few moments of this teasing, Sherlock rocked his hips downward, whimpering around the dog tags. John reached up, sliding two fingers into the detective’s mouth along with the metal tabs, feeling how warm and damp they were. “Well, love. I think it’s time I fingered you open, and then you can lift up and ride me till I’m done with you, and you’ve learned your lesson. Hmm?”

He’d barely finished before Sherlock was scrambling to dig a spare bottle of lube out of the sofa cushions, thrusting it at him, and John laughed, grabbing a fistful of dark hair and yanking the man into a quick, hard kiss, tasting the metallic tang of the dog tags on his tongue.

“Thank you, though that was a little insolent--but I think I’ll it go, just this once.” He fixed the dark-haired man with a hard look. “That doesn’t mean you’ll get away with it again, understand?” Sherlock nodded, but his eyes were bright with excitement, and John laughed softly, knowing the reprimand went unheard. Ah well. Just meant another round as good as this one. No complaints, there.

“Right, love,” he said, slicking a finger with lube and slowly working it into the detective’s hole, making him squirm and moan on John’s lap. “I want to hear you, now. Don’t be shy.”

Happy to obey, Sherlock stopped biting back his sounds, moaning whorishly around the metal in his mouth as John pushed in to the knuckle, thrusting the one finger in and out slowly until the muscle relaxed, and he could ease in a second. He was moving just a few seconds too fast, punishing his lover’s body just a little, but that was the point, and Sherlock loved it. Two fingers buried inside, and John began to scissor him open carefully, letting his speed cause the penalizing burn that Sherlock needed, but never risking causing him damage.

And then a third was able to penetrate, and he could hear Sherlock whimpering, moaning, “Jo--Captain...I need it...”

John withdrew all three fingers too quickly, feeling Sherlock jerk and cry out, and he smiled as he wiped his fingers over the still-reddened skin of his arse, smearing lube. “Sassy bastard,” he muttered affectionately. “Lucky for you, so do I. Up you get.”

Sherlock twisted in place immediately, his hands jumping immediately to undo John’s belt and trousers, practically ripping them open in his haste to free his Captain’s cock. John muttered a curse, his own hips arching rather reflexively as those beautiful pale hands closed around him, stroking quickly and using his pre-cum to lubricate his length.

“Cap--Captain,” Sherlock’s voice sounded positively wrecked, and John loved it, loved him, so painfully much. “Please....bare...?”

John choked out a laugh, grabbing the man’s thin waist and dragging him over until he was straddling the doctor. “Of course, love, we’re--of course. Come on. Show me you’re sorry for what a git you were.”

Without hesitation Sherlock sank down onto his cock, burying him to the hilt and dragging moans of pleasure from them both. He was barely fully seated before he was moving, though, rising and falling, impaling himself over and over as John met him with helpless, eager thrusts, fingers gripping the detective’s sides hard enough to leave bruises, but they both loved that, too.

At some point, Sherlock fell forward, clutching at John’s shoulders and drawing close enough to pant in his ear, “Ca--Captain, can---please---please, touch me--?”

John gasped out his approval, reaching down to wrap one hand around his lover’s cock, slick and throbbing and definitely in need of attention. “Are you close, love?” he panted. “Will you come with me?"

“Ye--yes, please, Captain Watson,” was the beautiful reply, and John grunted as he quickened his thrusts and his stroking simultaneously, practically shoving them both toward orgasm. Sherlock beat him by a single heartbeat, his whole body tightening and clenching beautifully around John’s, milking him to his finish as he felt Sherlock shatter, hot come splashing across his hand and chest, and he continued moving, more slowly, stroking until Sherlock whimpered from the sensitivity, and thrusting until his own prick couldn’t take the pressure anymore.

For a long moment they simply lay together, a tangle of limbs and sweat and panting and contentment, and then Sherlock spoke, his voice tense with unfamiliarity at expressing an apology. “I’m....sorry, for being so...for what I said, earlier.”

That got a laugh out of John, and he pushed Sherlock up, letting him see “Captain Watson” at his finest, his shirt sticking to him with sweat, Sherlock’s cum splattered across the cotton, as well as the skin of his stomach and groin, visible beneath the rumpled hem. It was a beautifully obscene image. “I think you made it up to me, love.”

Sherlock swooped down, pressing a hard kiss to John’s lips, and only then did John notice that the dog tags were gone. “Where...Oh.” His eyes widened as he found them, now hanging around Sherlock’s neck. “Oh, that is...that’s...I like it.”

The detective looked proud of himself, then ducked down to speak in his lover’s ear again. “May I keep them on, Captain Watson? As a...reminder...of who owns me?”

John grunted in amusement and arousal, his arms lashing around the taller man, pressing their damp bodies together, making Sherlock squeal in surprise as the wet squelch of the fluids trapped between them. “God, yes, you impossible thing. And don’t you forget it, either--you’re mine.”

Long arms wrapped around him as well, clinging with just as much need. “Yes. Yours, Captain...Yours, John.”

And even when he would again, inevitably, piss his army doctor off to no end, it would still be so, and they would still find ways to work it out. Together.


End file.
